


Our Best Girl

by TwentyoneTwelve



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Dementia, Gen, Growing Old Together, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Not Happy, Post-Avengers (2012), Steve is not in Kansas anymore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 19:08:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7066468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwentyoneTwelve/pseuds/TwentyoneTwelve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wrinkles at the corners of the older man’s eyes crinkled, his head tipping a little to the side. “Security company were a little concerned about someone loitering in their historically valuable cemetery after dark. MPDC got a little distressed when they saw the suit on the video. My old firm got involved to make sure it was actually you before anyone disturbed S.H.I.E.L.D. at that time of night. Someone wanted my opinion on what you were up to.” He shifted his weight again, leaning more heavily on the stick, and raised his right hand. “Captain Rogers, my name is Daniel Sousa, and I’d like you to join me for breakfast.”</p>
<p>Steve Rogers was frozen for nearly 70 years. He's been awake for less than a month. The world has no intention of waiting for him to catch up. </p>
<p>A one-shot reuniting Steve with a certain feisty SSR agent. Fits neatly after Avengers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Best Girl

The sun had risen enough that the uniform hills and the rows of straight-sided gravestones were hazily visible as they stretched away towards the horizon on all sides. Steve Rogers came to attention, and fell out of his solitary parade before kneeling to turn off the gas powered light that sat atop a battered ammunition case at the base of the nearest headstone. The army green Coleman Lantern had been bright enough for him to feel as though he had been alone in a small room with the stone and the cloudy black night had provided him with impenetrable chapel walls.

Even enhanced muscles, unmatchable for stamina and strength, protested as he stood. His phoenix-like rebirth had formed him for speed and agility. Neither fast nor slow twitch fibres were suited for a steady parade rest that had begun at sunset. “I hope they let you have a chair, Agent Coulson.” He murmured, pushing back the combination cowl/facemask with the clear white A on the brow. It was slick with dew that chilled his hands. And that reminded him of the days after he had woken up, after Phil Coulson’s role as a silent sentry had been rendered unnecessary, when all he had felt had been that bone-aching cold, and only constant movement had brought any measure of normality.

Steve bent again to pick up the lantern. Best to be back at the Triskelion before traffic built up. It was something endemic in this new age, one of the many things that he endured with a queasy mixture of dislike and fatigue and distrust – that every person could be counted on to have a camera about them. As a result information of interest to the public could be spread across the world faster than he could run down a street. It was a real pity that what was of interest to the public was the latest scandal involving starlets and politicians, and since the Battle of Manhattan, a large percentage of that attention seemed fixed on his doings, and especially how good his rear looked in the part-spandex pants he’d worn that day. _Beefcake, performing monkey. Guess some things never change._

He reached for the ammunition box, felt the small shift in weight as he picked it up and set it down again. Knew what they were even before he unlatched the lid. His arm, raised in a salute that was supposed to be jaunty, but had always struck him as self-conscious and awkward, and the face the fingers were lifting away from, were the first things he saw, swimming up from a dark red background and a darker brown layer of blood. Phil Coulson’s trading cards. He’d last seen them tossed on the glass table of the Heli carrier. Steve wasn’t a fan of Director Fury’s motivational techniques, but he couldn’t deny their effectiveness. And he had that sick and angry feeling that the cards were in the tin for the same reason. Fury’s little hint that it was time for Steve Rogers to put his ruby slippers back on and do what the Wizard asked.

‘“Vintage Captain America Trading Cards, near mint condition.”’ He repeated. It wasn’t the first time someone had asked him to sign cards with his face on them. Usually kids, their cards sticky with the bubble gum the cards were packaged in. The way Coulson had spoken, they’d sounded like the Holy Grail, and that signing them would include a similar amount of ritual. Steve had been mentally gearing up for a new battlefield. Tactical plans, changes in equipment and training all singing through his head. He hadn’t been wearing the suit, but he was as geared for battle as he had been that first solo raid. No time to allow those few seconds to acknowledge the hero-worship in the eyes of the ordinary man in the plain suit. He would never have made that mistake in the Howling Commandos days. Wouldn’t do it again.

Steve dragged the ammunition box across the soft dirt of Coulson’s grave. It uprooted a few early achieving blades of grass, but for the most part just pulled the damp earth with it. At the foot of the plot he set it square and pushed it in. One of those moments when the extra pounds came in handy. It sunk easily until it was flush with the ground. “Sorry I never made the time to sign them, Agent Coulson. Thanks for looking after me.” It struck him, he’d never asked how long it had been from them finding him until he had woken, or how long Coulson had watched. It was probably in one of the files they had given him, the stack of plain grey folders filled with their past that was his future and now his past too. It didn’t change anything, knowing what had happened.

The traffic noise was constant and slowly increasing from background. He needed to get moving. He shrugged into the black jacket and baseball cap he’d wrapped in a plastic bag and placed under a nearby tree. That ensemble tended to make him entirely forgettable, even with the mid blue pants and brown boots on full display. Lantern in hand, Steve headed towards the nearest exit.

Feet from the gate he stopped, stepping back into the shadow of some business tycoon’s mausoleum. There was a car idling at the curb, and a man standing beside it. Given the early hour, and the lack of other visitors, it wasn’t paranoid to assume they were waiting for him. He let the adrenaline ramp up, fixing the scene in his mind. Enhanced senses were a boon in this sort of encounter. He would easily be able to get away, the man was elderly, leaning heavily on a stick. There was no bulge under his sports coat, so unlikely Steve was going to be shot at. And - for this Steve poked his head out for a second opinion - he was wearing a winged lapel badge. Couldn’t be. He tended to trust the enhanced eyesight though. It was an SSR pin.

That was worth investigating further. Steve stepped out from the shelter of the worn bricks, and walked slowly towards the softly purring town car. He got close enough to hear the scuff of shoe on gravel before the older man spoke.

“Captain Rogers?” A mild, questioning tone - deceptively so, Steve realised, now that he was close enough to be caught in the intent gaze of a mahogany-dark pair of hooded eyes.

“How did you find me?” Answering with a question felt safer. Even if it was a stupid question in this day of cameras and celebrity sighting blogs. Even if it confirmed the older man’s assumption.

The wrinkles at the corners of the older man’s eyes crinkled, his head tipping a little to the side. “Security company were a little concerned about someone loitering in their historically valuable cemetery after dark. MPDC got a little distressed when they saw the suit on the video. My old firm got involved to make sure it was actually you before anyone disturbed S.H.I.E.L.D. at that time of night. Someone wanted my opinion on what you were up to.” He shifted his weight again, leaning more heavily on the stick, and raised his right hand. “Captain Rogers, my name is Daniel Sousa, and I’d like you to join me for breakfast.”

*

Even in the early stages of the commuter traffic, it was only a twenty minute ride as they headed away from the downtown area. Sousa didn’t speak to him after his initial directions to hand the lantern to the driver to be placed in the trunk and climb in the open side door, and then to wave away assistance as he climbed stiffly into the other side, but Steve caught the occasional bird-bright sharp glance.

They stopped outside a tall brick apartment complex. The front wall was garlanded with upper level terraces and regularly dotted with large windows that blindingly threw sunlight back at the sky. The gardens between sidewalk and the building was neat and full of bright flowers, almost obscuring the discreet sign that read “Sunset on Connecticut: a Senior Living Facility”. As the engine stopped and the driver moved to open his door, Steve looked at Sousa. The white haired man nodded. “I hope you don’t mind eating in the communal dining room?”

In response, Steve unlatched his belt and was around the other side of the vehicle before Sousa’s driver could open the older man’s door. “It shouldn’t be a problem, sir.” He waited for Sousa to extricate himself. It took a little longer than he expected, the man’s right leg needing to be manually lifted before he could swing around. He offered a hand to Sousa as the man wavered for a little, struggling to balance his stick. Sousa took it briefly, only to lift his hand to wave at the driver as he returned from dropping Steve’s lantern at the front counter.

“I’ll see you this afternoon, Michael?” A deep affection underwrote the question. The younger man, although not by much – Steve guessed the driver was in his sixties - touched Sousa on the shoulder. Sousa reached his free hand up to squeeze Michael’s. He tapped it a couple of times, before letting his drift back down.

“About three.” Michael promised, giving Sousa’s shoulder a last squeeze, and turning back to the town car. “See you then, Dad.” The engine purred softly as he pulled away from the curb.

“Well, then.” Sousa led the way through the building’s atrium and into a dining room that would have suited most upscale hotels. Most of the tables were empty. Steve thought that they were going to sit at one of the two person tables soaked in light from the French doors, but found himself following Sousa to a larger table near the back of the room. A young girl in the smock-like uniform of the catering staff had also followed them, and was hurrying to pull out their chairs.

“Coffee please, Colleen.” Sousa instructed. “And my grandson here, if you can keep filling his plate, that would be most appreciated.”

The curly-haired girl smiled, “I can do that, Mr. Sousa.” She turned to Steve. “What can I get you to drink?”

Steve hesitated, hazarded a guess. “Coffee too, please. Same way he takes it, if that’s okay.”

Her mouth twisted a little, but she nodded brightly. “Sure. I’ll be back in a tick, Mr. Sousa.”

Steve used that time to appraise their environment. It was a nice open room, the acoustics soft enough that residents with hearing aids would just be hearing what was happening at their table, rather than a whole lot of background noise. Between himself and Sousa, they had all the exits visible, and… and there were no clear line of sight from the windows or doors to their table, which meant that neither snipers nor directional microphones would be very successful. His head snapped around to meet Sousa’s gaze.

The old man’s eyebrows were slightly raised. “I thought you might appreciate some privacy.”

Steve nodded, glad that Colleen had returned with their breakfast. He busied himself with cutlery and napkin, a little unsettled at Sousa’s demonstration of tradecraft. The plate was piled high with enough fried eggs, slabs of toast, sausages, hash browns and beans to feed a city block. It looked amazing. Sousa had a similar assortment in a more sensible portion size. Steve lifted the mug of coffee. It was thick and dark, the smell strong enough to make him feel wide awake. He took a cautious sip. There was no way it could be described as ‘good coffee’. But it was a familiar taste, bitter and syrupy, the dregs of previous brews still in layers deeper in the cup. It was coffee the way the Howling Commandos had made it.

“You were SSR, too?”

Sousa nodded. “They recruited me when I was invalided out after Bastogne. It was interesting. I was Division Chief out of Los Angeles for a while,” He paused to sip his coffee, suddenly uncertain. “You were responsible for raising the siege of Bastogne, weren’t you?”

Sousa’s expression was disconcertingly similar to the one Coulson had borne when they had first met. “I wasn’t alone, but yes. That was one of my missions. They had been there too long, it was risky, but I could see a way, and they were worth the attempt.” His stomach curdled with that not nearly long ago enough fear. There had been so little fire from the allied side of the blockade. He had been terrified that there would be no survivors. Steve took a big pull on his coffee, his hand stilling as the heat swept down his throat.

“Well, I know I’m thankful. Pretty sure the other 600 or so guys up there were too.” Sousa swung around in his chair so that his right leg stuck out. He hammered on his thigh with the butt of his fork. The resulting sound was suggestive of plastic rather than flesh. “Lost this, but in the long run, well. Thanks for what you did, Captain. All of it. You did a lot of good.”

Sousa was looking him in the eyes as he said it, and Steve felt his throat tighten. He had been thanked and praised and feted since his return, and they had known his history, read his mission reports, but this, from someone who had been there…He swallowed, tried out a smile. “I just… I guess that since I had the ability, I felt like I had the responsibility, you know.”

Sousa nodded. It felt almost like a benediction, which was impossible with such a small gesture.

*

Then the moment was gone. Sousa smiled over Steve’s head, and moved to stand. Steve copied, looking over his shoulder. Approaching their table was an elderly lady in a wheelchair, pushed by another smocked aide.

Her hair was silver, but still impeccably dressed. Her dressing gown fitted well, and her posture was the same as he recalled it. The same flash of memory caught them both, and Steve closed the gap, kneeling beside her even as she moved shakily to rise. Her hands reached out, cupping his face, tracing it. “Oh. Steve. Oh. My Darling,” she whispered, pulling him in for a kiss, as though touch alone was not enough to satisfy her of his reality. It tasted of salt, which made sense – they were both crying.

It was her. Under the disguise of wrinkles, the talcum powder rather than scent, the absence of her trademark red lipstick, it was his best girl. It was Peggy Carter. He rocked back on his heels, suddenly needing the space. The aide took this as her cue to continue wheeling the chair around to the other side of the table and the empty space next to Sousa. Peggy reached out and took Sousa’s hand as he reclaimed his seat. “Look, Daniel. It’s Steve. He’s come back.”

“So I see.” Sousa kissed her cheek, a warm greeting of long companionship, and helped her with her napkin. Steve thought for a moment that the other man might be displeased, to see what was clearly a special women to him kissing another man in such a manner, but Sousa was calm. Whatever he and Peggy had was a sea wall, and undisturbed by this freak wave.

Peggy released Sousa’s hand, and reached across the table to take both of Steve’s. She was no longer the girl she had been for those few seconds, illuminated with the return of her lost fairy tale prince. She was steady, a deep well of years lived, eras experienced. “Steve. I missed you so very much.” She had retained that cut glass accent and ready smile. “This is Daniel Sousa. We worked at the SSR together after the war. And, he’s my husband.”

How was he supposed to respond? He nodded at Sousa across the table. “He seems like a good man. My congratulations, Peggy.” What had he expected her to do? Remain single, mourning him for the seventy years that he had slept? It had been a blink of an eye for him, but she had taken the slow road.

“He is a very good man.” She agreed. “Department Head for the CIA here. He works so hard, and still makes time for me. Oh!” She looked around. “Daniel, have you introduced him to the children?”

“I had the pleasure of meeting your son, Michael.” Steve offered.

“Michael Steven.” Peggy corrected him. “I named him after Captain Rogers, a dear friend and a true hero. And we also have a daughter, Angela. They’re both very busy though, Angie has young children.”

Steve wasn’t sure that he was understanding the conversation. He looked up from his plate, and Sousa met his gaze with something like sympathy.

“Michael will be around this afternoon,” Sousa squeezed his wife’s hand. “He said he might bring Sharon with him if she can get off work. That would be good, hey?” Peggy smiled up at him, “It would. And now, my darling,” she raised one shaking hand to look at her watch. “We both have work to get to. Morning briefing waits for no man.” She reached for his coffee mug. There wasn’t enough left to spill as she raised it awkwardly to her mouth, and she tipped it back to drink the dregs.

Sousa caught it as it dropped from her hand. “I’ll see you for lunch then,” he promised, leaning in to steal a kiss. They broke apart smiling, and the aide was once again at their table, turning Peggy’s chair. Colleen took advantage of the moment to clear away the plates and refill their mugs, and then the two men looked across the table at each other.

“I’m sorry,” Sousa looked down at his fingers, smoothing out a wrinkle in the cloth. “Today wasn’t her best day.”

“It wasn’t in her file.” Steve wrapped his hands around the mug.

“No. We left it out…partly for security, and… I don’t want history to remember her like this.” His eyes were fierce. “There’s plenty of footage of her brilliance, her fearlessness. She was a founder of S.H.I.E.L.D. She saved this country many times over. This is just a minor footnote.”

“I understand.” Steve said, trying to aim for reassuring rather than shaken.

Sousa’s eyes burned into him. “My God! She was incredible. S.H.I.E.L.D was like a third child. And she, she was doing field work until she was in her sixties. That was one of the reasons I took the CIA job. I was Mr Carter at S.H.I.E.L.D., and the undercover work was never my forte, what with the leg. So I helped start up this other organisation. Back then it was all about intelligence gathering and analysis. I’ve always been a good detective, and that way I could be sure that the information she based her missions on was solid. It was the only way I could keep her safe. You should have seen her, playing the dutiful wife at the Company dinners. The wicked comments she would make, the things she would notice about my staff.” He swirled the dark liquid in his mug, stared at it, left it. ”She’d still be consulting there now, if not for…this.” Sousa stood abruptly, grabbing at the table edge for balance. “Mind if we walk for a bit?”

Steve shook his head, passing the older man his stick from where it had fallen off the chair arm. “I assume there’s a garden here?”

The heat had gone from Sousa’s voice, but not the sadness. “If not for the dementia, well, that’s how we met Coulson. There were little signs, we should have noticed, but Peggy, she was managing pretty well. But there was a really bad patch where she couldn’t understand why she couldn’t go into the office. We’d find her wandering downtown looking for the Triskelion. And there was one day where she thought we were holding her captive, and she managed to get hold of our driver’s gun.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Coulson knew her well. As a protégé of Fury’s and a not so closet history buff – did you know he had memorised the contents of the Howling Commando field kit – he made a good companion for those days when she flicked between being thirty years old and running a massive organisation, and being eighty four, and desperately aware that she was confused and growing more so. We couldn’t have survived that period without him. And you know what?”

Steve found himself leaning closer, imagining the little agent with the earnest face sitting next to Peggy on one of the benches they were walking past.

“He thanked me.” Sousa said, disbelief in his tone. “He thanked me for letting him spend so much time with her. I needed to thank him. Without Phil Coulson, the intelligence community would remember my wife as a lost and confused woman, stumbling into meetings, distressed and angry. He was a good man, Captain, and I’m sorry you didn’t get to know him. I know he and Peggy talked about you a great deal.”

“Peggy had a special knack for finding good men.” Steve made his words come out level, ruthlessly crushing down the voices that wailed that he had missed so much, so much that was lost forever, that he had forever lost his place in the column and was fated to march out of step, shut out of his brotherhood for all time. “I meant what I said before. I am very glad that she had you, Daniel Sousa. You treasured her more than I’d hoped anyone would. I wish I could thank Coulson for his part.”

Sousa stopped walking, and swung around to face Steve. It was abrupt enough that Steve had to side step as not to walk into him. “I’ll tell him when I see him.” He didn’t meet Steve’s gaze, poking the end of his stick into the gaps in the paving stones. “The kids know, but I’m not sure how to tell Peg. It’s advanced, prostate cancer. All the aches and pains were it getting into my bones, not just me getting old and decrepit. Can’t put a number on it, but not the time to get into long term investments.” He looked Steve square in the face, and there wasn’t any of the reserve left. “I know, this is a lot to ask. You’ve never met me, and even Peggy is a stranger. I know it’s not your world anymore, Captain. I know there’s enough riding on you. A knight in shining armour from the Golden Age of Heroes, but I can’t leave her alone.

“Like you said, Peggy has a special knack for finding good men, and I’ve heard a lot about you in the last sixty four years. I can’t think of a better man to trust.” Daniel Sousa reached out a wrinkled hand, seeking, pleading. “Steve Rogers, will you take care of my best girl for me?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for joining me for my first ever posted fan fiction.   
> This story came out of a tumblr prompt - whether Daniel Sousa and Phil Coulson had ever met, and I guess, this is one attempt at an answer. It's also a tribute to A.E.W, the Peggy to my Sharon.   
> Love to read your thoughts and feedback.


End file.
